


She's Just Not That Into You

by chaletian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaletian/pseuds/chaletian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' life is tragically tragic when Lydia finally sends out an invitation to her wedding - a wedding that noticeably does not include him as the happy groom - except, it sort of turns out that he doesn't mind so much. Actually, he might not mind at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Just Not That Into You

Stiles is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, gilt-edged card in his lap. He’s not sulking.

“Stop sulking,” says Derek, kicking Stiles’ feet off the coffee table.

“I’m not sulking,” says Stiles. He puts his feet back on the coffee table. Jackson and Scott alone have broken it three times in the last month; he’s pretty sure his shoes (neither mud- nor blood-encrusted) are the least of its problems. “Is it sulking to gaze pensively into the middle distance whilst contemplating the tragic collapse of every hope and dream you’ve ever had?”

“Yeah,” says Derek. “I think that’s exactly what sulking is.”

Stiles scowls. “Well, shut up, Sulky McSulkerson. You’re not the only person who gets to lower a brooding brow. Because, can I just reiterate, _every hope and dream I ever had has just collapsed_.”

“Bullshit,” says Derek and, dude, the guy is 0-for-3 on the sympathy stakes. This totally calls for Stiles’ best outrage face, carefully honed over years of teenage indignities and then – well, years of college indignities. And, in fact, life as a working adult does not appear to have lessened the need for the Stilinski Outrage.

“Derek, please,” says Stiles, pressing the non-gilt-edged-card-holding hand to his heart, “restrain this outpouring of empathy, I can’t cope.”

“Lydia and Jackson have been engaged for over a year,” Derek says callously. He’s looming over Stiles, arms crossed, and Stiles is utterly unsurprised when his feet get kicked off the table again (Derek being house-proud never gets old; genuinely hilarious; Stiles sneaks his feet back up). “And before that they dated since, what, forever? At what point did you ever have a chance?”

Now, this is just offensive. “I’ll have you know I am a recognised hottie by the denizens of Beacon Hills,” says Stiles. “I have been propositioned more than once. I assumed Lydia would come to her senses and come to appreciate the wonder of Stilinski over the, let’s face it, fundamental douchebaggery of Whittemore.” He considers this briefly, and fairness wins out. “OK, marginally less douchebaggy than in days of yore,” he concedes. “Wolfiness suited him better than killer lizard-dom. My point,” Stiles continues, getting into his flow now, “is that I have known since infancy – _infancy_ , Derek – that Lydia and I were destined for each other. Sure, when we were pimply teenagers it seemed unlikely, but I never faltered in my belief and...” Stiles has a lot of material in this vein and is capable of going on for some time, but the front door bangs open.

“Isaac and Erica,” says Derek, like Stiles can’t hear it for himself, and kicks at Stiles’ feet for a final time before going to loom in the doorway leading into the front hall.

“Is that Stiles? Is his casserole for all of us?” calls out Erica. “It better be.”

“As long as you eat the accompanying vegetables,” calls back Stiles, abandoning his soulful wedding invitation caressing for the greater task of promoting healthy eating to Derek’s ever-clueless pack. “Werewolf does not live by terrified forest bunny alone.”

He glances over. Derek has raised an eyebrow in his direction and, fine, whatever, maybe werewolf can live by terrified forest bunny alone, but a balanced diet is everyone’s friend, and scurvy would just be (a) unpleasant and (b) embarrassing, given that no-one is an intrepid early modern sailor of the high seas.

“Your obsession with vegetables is weird,” says Derek, like he has _any leeway at all_ in judging people on weirdness, so Stiles ignores him and bounces to his feet. Isaac and Erica might be Stiles’ age and, y’know, functioning adults who have actually managed to find gainful employment that doesn’t conflict with being werewolves who live in what to the casual outsider can only look like suspiciously cult-like circumstances, but he still doesn’t trust them to not try stealthily disposing of their broccoli. (Ha! Those two, stealthy. Please. Stiles has uncovered more surreptitiously hidden broccoli than they could dream of.)

“Anyone else in tonight?” Stiles asks, pushing past Derek and heading for the kitchen.

“Just them,” says Derek, following right behind him, as usual, werewolf heater blasting on full (Stiles swears Derek creates his own little tropical climate, which to be honest tends to come in handy in the colder weather). “Sorry you don’t get a larger audience for your end-of-the-world meltdown.” Again, rude. It’s fine, Stiles can be the bigger man, and if he accidentally kicks Derek in the shins then it’s his own fault for always walking so close.

They get to the kitchen. Isaac and Erica freeze in the act of throwing broccoli out of the window. “One day,” says Stiles, “one tragic day, I am gonna stop bringing you guys actual food and handy supernatural knowledge and emotional support, and you’re all going to shrivel into husks. Sad, sad husks, living on bunnies and tears.”

Isaac shoves half a head of broccoli into his mouth.

“You got the wedding invitation, didn’t you?” says Erica.

Stiles perches himself on a stool at the kitchen counter and buries his head in his arms. “My every dream has been trodden in the dirt,” he moans. Eventually – eventually – he feels Derek squeeze his shoulder, and hears the sound of a bottle plunking down by his head; he looks up to see a convenient bottle of beer, and throws up his arms. “Finally! An opportunity to drown my sorrows!”

“Lydia’s crazy,” offers Isaac, scooping up casserole like he hasn’t eaten in a week (what is it with werewolves? Seriously?), and Stiles points at him excitedly.

“Exactly what I’ve been saying! Who wouldn’t want this?” He performs some sort of all-encompassing hand-wave. “A crazy person, right?”

“Definitely a crazy person,” agrees Derek, and Stiles flicks his gaze across to where Derek’s propped himself up against the refrigerator, because it’s about time that someone showed some appreciation of Stiles’ worth and also intrinsic sexiness, and…

And…

Derek’s looking at him, and Stiles wonders briefly and vaguely if this is what drowning’s like. Not the rising fear or the horror or the exploding head and the fast, frenetic heart beat (actually, ok, yes to that last part), but this: seeing the last few years of his life flash past. And not how Stiles lived them, but as if there’s another point of view, another way of telling Stiles’ story, like the camera’s switched to another perspective. Stiles sees himself at college, searching the internet for whackadoodle clues whilst talking to idly to Derek, cell phone tucked under his chin. And that time when Scott managed to practically crucify himself on wolfsbane-spiked barbwire and Derek and Stiles spent the night in Deaton’s waiting room. And that Thanksgiving when Stiles got tricked into making dinner. And… a kaleidoscope of scenes, and Stiles – practically Hawkeye Stilinksi, not that anyone did him the courtesy of calling him that – has, it turns out, been completely oblivious to his actual life.

Derek’s still looking at him, and Stiles realises he’s been staring back, beer still in one limp hand, mouth dropped open. He swallows, and looks away. Erica and Isaac are still commiserating over Lydia getting married but, hey, Lydia’s been one of Stiles’ best friends for years, and in love with Jackson (who’s always going to be slightly douchey, but really, what can you do?) even longer, so…

He looks back over at Derek, who’s frowning now, presumably at Stiles’ slightly bizarre behaviour. Stiles grins, and tips his beer bottle in Derek’s direction. There’s a beat, and another, and Derek grins back, and this is... this is actually good. This is great. Stiles' grin grows wider, and this is officially _amazing_.

 

 

 

Erica and Isaac continue to stuff casserole in their faces because, really, nothing’s changed.

FIN


End file.
